


Feeling Gravity's Pull

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt from sahiya: "Neal and Peter have been on the rocks since the events of "Under the Radar"; their working relationship is icy and their friendship is almost non-existent. Neal gets very sick with appendicitis and ends up in the hospital; he refuses to call Peter at all at first, but then Peter checks his tracking data and sees where he is and how long he's been there. It'd be great if this could eventually serve as the impetus to Peter and Neal starting to reconcile."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling Gravity's Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a song by REM.
> 
> This was originally published between Seasons 2 & 3; spoilers for Under the Radar.

“Diana!”

Diana looked up from her computer to see Peter leaning over the railing on the upper level of offices in the FBI's New York White Collar Unit. His face looked stern, angry almost, and he reached out his arm in an all-too-familiar gesture that she knew meant business.

“Crap, the double-finger-point,” Clinton Jones commented to her. “What did you do?”

“I have no earthly idea,” she replied, eyes widening. She rose from her seat and dashed up the stairs to Peter’s office.

Peter was waiting for her just inside his door, hands on hips and leaning slightly forward. “Where’s Caffrey?” he barked.

She raised her eyebrows. “He’s not in yet.”

“Not in yet,” he repeated, breathing out through his nose. She could see the muscles bunching in his jaw.

“Well, it’s only just past 8:00, boss…”

He nodded, turned away and sat at his desk, effectively dismissing her.

“What was that all about?” Clinton asked as she sat back at her desk.

“I hate it when Mom and Dad are fighting,” Diana muttered.

“Well, it’s a little more serious than that,” he pointed out.

The weeks since the incident with Adler had been tense at best, downright contentious at worst. Peter was convinced Neal had somehow conspired to steal all the artworks that had been recovered from the Nazi sub, and Neal steadfastly denied it. Lately, the two had been flat out avoiding each other, with Peter allowing Diana to take over Neal’s day-to-day supervision, and Neal lying as low as he possibly could.

“I suppose it is, but their bullshit trust issues are getting mighty old.”

“I’ve never seen it this bad, not even after that whole Mentor thing. There’s a big hole that needs repairing in their relationship.”

Diana gave him a look.

“What, I can’t be in touch with my feelings?” Clinton asked.

An hour later, Diana looked up to see Peter looming above her ominously. “He’s still not in?”

She shook her head. “He wasn’t feeling too hot on Friday. Maybe he’s got the flu?”

“Clinton, can you pull up Neal’s tracking data?”

Diana didn’t know why she suddenly felt like she was at fault, but Peter had that effect on her sometimes, and she hated that she let it happen.

Jones clicked around with his mouse for a couple of minutes. “Huh,” he said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“According to this, Neal’s at Lenox Hill Hospital.”

\----

Peter found on-street parking two blocks from the hospital and strode purposefully up to the entrance. His face was serious, angry, wondering what kind of scam Neal must be pulling now.

He hated feeling this way, resented Neal for the very fact that he did; resented him because of what he’d apparently been willing to throw away. Because while their partnership had made the transition to friendship only within the last year or so, Peter had thought that Neal might have seen the benefit of being on the right side of the law by now, and that with his guidance, Neal might give up his conman ways for good. He’d clearly been wrong.

That had been what hurt the most, and there had been nothing he could do to get past it. He’d felt so thoroughly betrayed by Neal, had been convinced – despite a total lack of evidence, and even a negative polygraph test – that he had to have something to do with the missing art. Early on, he wondered if he’d regret investing so much in the relationship, and lately he thought he might.

Peter approached the information desk at the entrance, pulled out his badge and introduced himself. “I’m not sure if you can help me, this is a big place. But I’m looking for a man by the name of Neal Caffrey. He’s a parolee who is on a tracking anklet, and our records show that he’s on the premises. Do you require visitors to sign in?”

The young woman who first greeted him handed him the sign-in register and Peter glanced through the last few pages of names. None were known aliases of Neal’s, nor had he used his real name.

“No, he’s not here. Is there another entrance?”

“Most visitors come through here. Could he be a patient?” the young woman asked, already clicking the keys on her computer.

“I don’t think so,” Peter began, but she interrupted him.

“Here he is…oh!” She looked up at Peter. “It says here he’s in Intensive Care. I’m sorry.”

Peter shook his head. “What? No, you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not – Neal Caffrey – admitted Saturday afternoon.”

“I – he’s been here for two days?” Peter could feel the blood drain from his face.

“Yes, Mr. Burke.”

“Wh-where…?”

“The ICU is on the fifth floor. Follow this hallway back to the main elevator banks and there will be signs when you get there.”

Peter moved off without thanking her.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself standing in the doorway to one of the tiny private rooms in the ICU, his mind a complete blank as the shock of the situation washed over him. According to the nurse, Neal had been in septic shock when he was brought into the ER on Saturday, the result of a burst appendix. He’d undergone emergency surgery, but the infection had already reached his bloodstream, and he’d been in a coma for the last 36 hours. Peter hovered just outside the doorway, because entering the room would make it all real, somehow. But there Neal lay, unmoving, an oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face.

“You can go on in,” a nurse said to him gently. He started out of his reverie and looked back at her. “They can tell when people are with them.”

“I don’t – thank you.” He walked slowly towards the bed, put his hand on the railing. “Neal,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Jesus.” He scrubbed a shaking hand over his face and lowered it, rested it awkwardly on Neal's knee. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there when he heard a footfall behind him and a voice addressed him coldly. “Suit.”

Peter turned abruptly at the interruption. “Mozzie.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What happened?”

“He collapsed on Saturday. You didn’t answer my question - what are you doing here?”

“When he didn’t show up to work this morning, I tracked Neal’s anklet data here. He’s in a coma, Mozzie! Why didn’t you call me?”

“He asked me not to.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re a smart man, Suit, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Peter turned back to look at Neal, searching his slack face as if he could find his answer there. That Neal didn’t want to see him, even as he was facing such a crisis, spoke volumes to Peter. Had their relationship deteriorated that much? He reached his hand out to touch Neal, but thought better of it. He wasn’t wanted here. The realization hurt Peter to his core.

He left the room without another word and didn’t stop until he reached his car. He got in, locked the doors, and gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Damn it, Neal,” he said, his voice breaking and the hot tears he’d been holding back finally falling down his face. “Damn it!”

\----

Peter respected Neal’s wishes and stayed away, the guilt and sadness he felt at the situation growing by the day. To think that Neal had been so ill, and that Peter hadn’t noticed, hadn’t spoken to him directly for days beforehand, ate at his soul. He still didn’t think he could forgive Neal for what he suspected must have happened at that warehouse, but to have frozen him out completely was wrong. Despite everything, all their differences, the two men had forged a bond. Neal had saved Peter on more than one occasion, and Peter had done the same, would do it again. He hoped the relationship could be repaired when Neal recovered.

And Neal was recovering, if slowly. He regained consciousness on Wednesday, and the antibiotics he was being given had prevented the organ failure the doctors had feared more than the coma. He was weak, but it appeared the infection had not caused any brain damage either. He would need to remain in the hospital for another several weeks.

Elizabeth brought Peter daily reports of his progress. Her visits were apparently welcome, but the estrangement and its reasons were not a subject of conversation in the Burke household. Once, Peter asked her if Neal spoke of him and she shook her head, a sad expression on her face. “But he sleeps so much, hon. We don’t really talk about anything.”

He nodded, but the hurt in his eyes persisted through the day.

Monday morning, Peter was reading over a draft case report that was due to Hughes later in the day when there was a sudden commotion down in the bullpen. He tried to ignore it, but when he caught even Hughes rushing down to join in, he couldn’t stay away.  
The team was huddled around Diana’s PC, watching a streaming broadcast of a local newscast. “Once again, breaking news,” the newscaster was saying as Peter walked up. “A large cache of art, reported to have been looted by the Nazis during World War II, has been anonymously turned over to the International Foundation for Art Research here in New York. The Foundation has not named the party or parties responsible for the return of these works of art, but this is the largest recovery of lost works in fifty years…”

“I’ll be damned,” Peter breathed, raking a hand through his hair and leaning in closer to get more details. But beyond the headline and some video of the art, nothing else was being reported.

“I can’t believe it,” Diana said, looking up at him. “You think Neal had anything to do with this?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Peter said, and returned to his office to make a few phone calls.

\----

Early the next morning, Peter approached Neal’s hospital room, several of the morning’s newspapers under his arm. Neal had been transferred to a private room once he’d been removed from the critical list, and when Peter arrived, he was sleeping peacefully.

Peter stood in the doorway, unsure whether he should enter. His indecisiveness was made moot when Neal opened his eyes and turned his head to look at him.

“Hey,” Peter said, giving a wave from the door. He shifted from foot to foot, suddenly nervous.

But all trepidation quickly dissolved when Neal smiled at him, a smile so open and genuine it made Peter feel warm all over somehow, and he answered with a smile of his own.

“Peter!” Neal’s voice was weak, but he seemed pleased to see him.

Peter moved over to the bed and clasped a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “I’m so happy to see you awake, buddy.”

“Happy to be awake.”

Peter held up the copy of the New York Post he’d brought; its headline read: “PURLOINED NAZI LOOT RECOVERED.”

“Look at that,” Neal said, his face neutral.

“Yeah, look at that. You did good.”

“I think you mean I did ‘well,’ Peter.” Neal couldn’t resist the opportunity to correct him.

“Fine. But you did it.”

“I assisted,” Neal replied, looking into Peter’s eyes. His gaze was unwavering, sure, and Peter finally saw in Neal’s eyes what he’d been denying for the last several weeks: Neal had told him the truth. He had nothing to do with the artworks being removed from Adler’s warehouse at the waterfront, or the explosion.

Peter’s face crumpled and he looked down. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he said quietly, a tear falling from his eye as he blinked; it landed on the back of his hand where it rested on the bed rail, ran slowly down toward his thumb joint.

“I’ve never lied to you, Peter,” Neal said, a statement of fact rather than the accusation it ought to have sounded like.

“I know.”

Neal reached out and covered Peter’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry too.”

Peter looked up at him. “For what?”

“For not telling you about the art when I did find out about it. But I had people to protect, and it took time to work everything through.”

“I’m proud of you, of what you did.”

Neal smiled that open smile again, and Peter returned it.

“How are you feeling?” Peter asked, changing the subject.

“This is the part where I’d normally say ‘fine,’ but, honestly, I’ve never felt this bad in my life. This experience has been an eye-opener. I thought I was fine, that I didn’t need to ask anyone for help, but I was so wrong.” He had tears in his eyes that he dashed away un-self-consciously with the fingers of his left hand. “Sorry, I’m on an emotional roller coaster lately, too. They tell me it’s the drugs or something.”

“Or something.”

“You should sit down, maybe. You’re looming.”

“Oh, sorry.” Peter took a seat in the chair that was next to the bed.

“And I’m probably going to pass out any second, so don’t be alarmed. It always freaks Moz out, but it’s the drugs.”

A panicked look crossed Peter’s face at the mention of Moz’s name. “Moz? Is he around? He was pretty adamant that I shouldn’t see you.”

Neal frowned, his tone regretful. “I told him not to call you, but it was because I didn’t want to worry anyone. I think he may have gone a bit overboard.”

“Ah.”

“Our whole…disagreement…it really affected me. I was upset, angry. He was just protecting me.”

“I understand, and I suppose I don't blame him. No matter what happened, I handled it poorly. I should have trusted you, Neal. You’ve earned that by now.”

“I could say the same thing, Peter.” Neal blinked, his eyes suddenly heavy. “This is the part where I pass out,” he said with a sigh, lying back against his pillows; he was starting to slur his words.

“OK?”

“Don’t go, though. I want to talk to you when I wake up.” He blinked again, and his eyes were even more droopy.

“I won’t,” Peter promised, leaning forward. “I’ll be right here.”

Neal smiled and was asleep seconds later.

Peter stayed with him for the rest of the day, and they talked about everything and nothing during the times when Neal was awake, each man happy to be in the others’ company. Their relationship, like Neal’s body, would repair itself eventually, and they were content to pretend that it already had.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
